#Edward was on the dance floor clutching his pearls

[twilightofficial]

Edward at his wedding overhearing his wife tell the guy who’s in love with her that she’s fully prepared to die for Edwards dick on their honeymoon

#I know he was scandalized #Edward was on the dance floor clutching his pearls #twilight #the twilight saga #twilight renaissance #edward cullen #bella swan #jacob black #breaking dawn #twilight shitposting

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The Beast of Cairn Gorm by Mick Dark

The Beast of Cairn Gorm

By Mick Dark

Just over a 100km north of Inverness, Scotland in the small village of Braemar, on the Berriedale River, lived a gaelic speaking people of approximately 800. Raising cattle, farming and being good neighbours was the village’s primary mission statement. Winters remained dark and bitter but pints were rarely without gripped hands, thirsty gullets and high spirits. On one such night, a dozen or so frolicking and drunken Braemar folk kept a late hour at the Ox and Yolk Pub; an establishment in Braemar that was the pearl of the town. The pub, owned and operated by most the popular Braemar proprietor and primary instigator of Braemar wives’ angst Angus John MacDougall, rarely had its guitars and fiddles silenced and the laughter was perpetual. In the corner of the pub opposite the raging fireplace, Angus kept a piano that was rarely played and mostly used as a spot to lay your empty drinks. Angus saw to it that a doily was placed atop it to prevent any water damage. He bought it in Aberdeen at an auction and felt that it gave the place a bit of style but residents knew, as did he, that piano had no place in proper fiddle tunes. At least not here. Aila Gillis, the server kept the drinks flowing and was on her feeat for hours from the opening when dinner service started and the stews filled bellies and the chips never stopped, post-dinner. When Colin Kenworth laid his fiddle down to the boos of the few left, he did so with a smile and an apology. This was the dance. This was the routine each night. The music had to cease at some point and it was always to the yells of resistance of the patrons but they also knew that this signified their time to get the coats and hats on and head out into the crunchy snow and howling wind. After all, the wives would let them play for a while. Farming and cattle keeping was hard work and it was a trade-off. They would keep the peace and ensure that they had their nights of pints and repeated gaelic tales of northern prowess in hunting and iron guts that held their drink like no other.

The remaining din was a collective of goodbyes, stools scraped about the floor, the clanging of dishes and pint glasses collected and coats being slipped on. A few laughs for the remaining 8 patrons that typically saw to the close of the place and cutting through the jolly ambience was a shriek that some would claim to have shook the tables and the empty glasses upon them. This unknown noise repeated one more time, seconds after, and this time, it already had won its silence as to remain as clear as possible. Heads turned to each other with a look of shock and disbelief.

“What was that, does anyone know”? Colin spoke up. Being the most sober of the bunch, outside of Aila and Angus, he knew that this was not a trick of the mind and it was clear to him that it was no sound that he’d ever heard before.

“My jesus, Angus….is that Edward MacLeod’s cattle next door being attacked? Those fooking wolves have been growing some big bollocks on them since we started working on the turbines” Aila shouted. Angus, who had stopped frozen in his nightly closing bar wipe down. “Jesus, Aila, I dunno….that’s not a cow, no….more like an eagle but they aren’t that loud and aren’t around at night” He replied.

The patrons stopped and there seemed to be no rush to get out into the night. Gordon Allen Logan, the youngest of the crew had been working for the past year with his father, Glen, on the new wind turbine that one of the big companies had started installing into the countryside. It provided dozens of new jobs for the folks in Braemar and surrounding villages across the river. They were hearty folks and could be relied upon for the tough jobs that no southerners would go near in the winter. Gordon exclaimed “well, I’m to gittin home and fetching my rifle and I’ll find out because if it’s wolves, we can’t lose more livestock”…..Gordon started moving towards the door. His arm was firmly grabbed by Colin. “Shrink yer bollocks down, lad…nobody should be getting out there yet. Just wait a second, there”. The shriek repeated loudly and with a higher tone and it was followed by the scream of a man…..a scream that had as much fear washed over it as you could imagine. This made knees buckle inside the pub. Angus had not seen any of these lads afraid before. Not like this. It was not meant to be obvious but they were caught off guard. The shriek and the scream ended. It was hard to tell the distance but it was no more than 300, maybe 200 metres away. It was distant but none of them had ever heard a man scream that loud. That was pure terror in his heart.

“CHRIST ALMIGHTY, WHAT IS HAPPENING, LADS? WHO WAS THAT??, WHAT WAS THAT?!” yelped Danny Christie. Danny was a Northern Irish expat engineer from County Armagh that had moved to Braemar to take up the management of the energy center being used to monitor the wind turbines. “It’s fookin madness! That would have awoken the town”

“Me by’s, I need to get back to the missus! She’s alone! I need to get out of this place and back home!!” added David MacCullough…..a part time guitar player at the pub and manager of the local grocer…..”the wife is alone with the baby and for sure as Christ, she’d be off her tits with this racket. I have to go, lads….”

And with that, he grabbed his coat and pushed through the door before anyone could protest or hold him back. The wind forced its heavy whistle into the pub on the door opening and with a slam, forced by the same wind….David was heard running through the snow. The crunching was fast and his panting almost as loud….and after a half a minute, it all faded into the distance. He couldn’t be seen for the frost on the dirty stained-glass windows. Others had the same idea but were more interested in attempting to decipher the mysterious animal. It was a beast, for certain.

Michael Coy, the oldest of the residents was a long time resident farmer that spent nearly 8 decades watching Braemar grow into the village it is today from thick woods and spacious meadows and rolling hills, alongside a rushing river. Back then it was home to only 28 residents, 6 homesteads including his own up on the village’s highest point. His father built the home in the early 1900s and Michael made it a point of pride to take very good care of it along with the 40 acres of farm surrounding it. He built an adjacent barn for the ox and chickens. The other original residents had passed away many years ago.

Michael slumped into his seat, clutching his long tobacco stained beard. He was staring onto the floor, seemingly distracted and clearly nervous and distraught. He was shaking enough to be noticeable but not out of sorts to those that new him. Shaking was a human disorder you accept when you are a man of 78. Danny seemed to have been the only one in the pub that noticed the distress of the elderly man. A distress that was beyond a mere rumbling of nerves.

“Michael Coy, by jaysus…are you alright old man?” Danny leaned in and whispered to Old Mick Coy.

Slowly rotating his wide-open gaze, he moved to meet Danny’s concerned face. “I’m fine, just a bit tired, son and I’ll have to be moving on. I may have left the barn door open and that wind is a real bastard tonight. I …. I don’t want to risk the livestock freezing overnight if this snap freezes up the generator” Danny found this explanation to be quite cosmetic. There was something in Coy’s voice, the tremble and slow, measured words that made it sound a bit made up. “Coy, tell me what’s botherin ya…it’s not the chickens, I know this b’y. You are not one to leave anything open or prepared” Danny added.

Just then, from just outside the pub at what must have been just inside no more than 50 metres inside the tree line….a deafening shrill, a high pitched beastly scream that put everyone into their seats and some with a bright whimper from a fear, unexpected. The lights seemed to have flickered but from the sudden fright, it could have been a trick of the eye. This time, it was accompanied by a constant panting and low growl. Whispering as loudly as possible but with clear intention, now, that detection is not favourable…..Angus asked young Gordon to turn off the light at the front door while Angus turned off the kitchen light, leaving a lantern burning on the piano. Gordon decided that bolting the door wouldn’t hurt either. The latch slid shut and the group knew that this was something new, something extraordinary and something terrible and dangerous. The silence filled the pub if you didn’t count the collective din of hard breathing and beating hearts. Angus reached under the bar to the bottom and slid out a rifle that was once used for deer and Elk but found far more practical for the threat of wolves that got too close to the visitors outside in the summer when he had a few tables in front.

Michael Coy pulled his wool hat down and covered his eyes. This went unnoticed by no-one.

“For the love of jesus, Michael….what’s eating you?” said Colin. The rest vocalized their concern also. Michael was afraid of nothing. Hard as the peak of Ben Nevis and as fearless as a Hebrides Bull. He was being devoured by fear now. This was a canary in a coalmine for the lads that watched this pillar become a puddle.

Michael pulled up his wool stocking cap to reveal his deep, blue bloodshot eyes, awash with a light mist of tears that he wiped as quickly as he could. He took a slow breath and wiped forward on his lap as a distraction reflex….”I’m alright by’s….just had a bit much of the drink and the tummy is not feeling too good from the fish” he proclaimed. “I’ll have you know that Tommy Dylan and Raymond Campbell caught that fish fresh today out on the ice! There was nothing wrong with the fish!” Aila protested. “Speak up old man” Angus said. “What’s gotten into you?”

Michael slowly stood up, holding onto the shoulder of Danny Christie and his cane in the other hand….made a little “oof” sound and slowly walked towards the bar and leaned into it, his back to the group….a light growl and branches snapping was heard outside from the same distance as before. This turned all heads and made Michael grab a bar stool with his squeezing, white knuckled hands.

“I’ve heard this before” Michael said softly….then slowly turning to meet the eyes that had just settled back on him, from the direction of the door. “It was a long time ago, maybe 50 years or so but I know this sound and it’s been imprinted in my brain b’ys.. Not something I’d soon forget although would give anything to be able to” Michael continued. “When my father’s father broke ground here for the very home of mine that you’ve all been to, up on the hill…it took a grand deal of wood and diggin’. We cleared out a lot of wood and spooked away a lot of wildlife and my grandfather used to tell me that we take the space that we need and not a shovelful more. We kept to that until my father passed away. After he was buried, we came home and the first thing that came to mind was to extend the farm and make space for the barn that now lies 40 metres from the house and being a 25 year old young man that never really paid much attention to my elders…..I declined my father and grandfather’s wishes of not expanding or using more of the highlands to stake my claim on the rest of the land that we owned by deed but did not exploit. I felt that this was my damned lot and I wanted to use it for as much as I could reap from it. So, I did, with the help of some hired local boys from nearby Brora that had the tools and carriages that I needed to get the job done” Michael, stared into the door ahead of him and paused. He walked slowly back to his seat on the bench next to Danny and blew some heat into his hands. Not a sound was made from the lads.

“I was warned to not take more. I remembered only then, in my twenties, a story that my grandfather told me about the Beast of Cairn Gorm - he called it - that lived in the caves on the highest point of the Cairn Gorm somewhere nearly a kilometre up the mount. It terrified me as a child….but even as a cheeky story that I felt was a tale of the retributions of over indulgence, it seemed a bit extraordinary and one that, to me, was clearly crafted within the mind of an old Highland man. It was an old gaelic tale that was whispered about between the kids and when brought up, in fun, the faces of the adults turned to scorn and sharp shushes. We kids felt that the adults just played the game well.” He continued.

“So, I had forgotten that story for two decades until the first of my 40 acres were cleared away and tills came in to cut up the soil, while I worked on the large barn I focused on…..that some very peculiar activities started happening. See, I was the only home in the area of a few dozen residents that wasn’t happy with the confines of the small home and wanted more. I wish that I hadn’t” Michael took a sip of the forgotten about last bit of his Tennent’s that wasn’t yet collected by Aila. The rest of the folks started to quietly pick up their chairs and get closer to Michael to keep the rest of the tale as covert as possible from any terrible ears outside of the pub. Gordon lightly ensured the lock was in place while Angus came from around the bar with his rifle, stoked the fire to make sure it didn’t go out in this bitterly cold night.

“One night in October, after opening up a bottle of cider that was gifted to us in celebration of the new land development that we completed during two months, my wife and I sat at our kitchen table after a lovely dinner – of what, I don’t remember now – and that was when we heard this terrible sound for the first time – this sound”. Michael pointed to the space beyond the pub. “In utter shock, my wife dropped the bottle onto our wooden floor and it bounced around. I remember being angry at the bottle while it rolled. It seemed illogical but I was focused on the sound and when the bottle had come to a stop at the foot of the wood stove….we could hear loud footsteps and the cracking of large branches. Then, that is when we heard our cows scream. If you haven’t heard a cow scream, then I envy you. This was terror. Pure terror in the animals’ voices. We heard them being slaughtered not 30 yards away. I grabbed my gun, a pocket full of shells and rushed on my boots and ran outside. I was terrified but I needed to do something. There was something killing my livestock. I ran to the newly built barn and the door had been pried open. The animals’ entrails and skin and flesh were strewn across my barn. I could not tell which were pigs, cows or lamb. All were ripped apart. Then I heard this shriek come from just outside the rear of the barn…..followed by a guttural roar. I ran outside, my heart was pounding and I thought I would faint from fear….but to the back of the barn, the shriek again! I saw a massive beast bent over with matted fur which could only have been from the blood of my animals…..it’s eyes were shining in the moonlight and it was panting and growling in a low vibration, staring directly at me. It must have been 7 or 8 foot tall, long ears fallen to the side of its head but with sharp teeth that protruded from its maw and down to it’s chin. Then, suddenly, to my left near the house, my wife screamed. She had been standing on the porch and had noticed this monster. It immediately noticed her and began to speed towards her on all fours. This was no animal I have ever seen or knew of its existence. It was fast and was about to descend upon my wife. Why did you scream, woman!?, I had shouted at her in my stress.

I raised my shotgun as quickly as I could and landed a shot into its lower back which sent it rolling across the yard of my house and I added another to its neck. It sounded a piercing yelp and looked at me with a malice that reduced me to jelly. Then quickly reloaded with the shells from my pocket and shot again, this time missing it entirely. I was shaking. I was physically vibrating.

It was down and not moving except for its head that was intent on me and while I took aim with my last shell, it roared at me with its fanged mouth wide open. It was certainly perturbed with the holes I had put into it. The surprise of the shriek made me drop my gun. My hands were drenched in sweat and I was lucky to have landed any shots at all with my shakes and sweat covered hands. My wife ran inside and it rose to its feet and took a step towards me as I scrambled for the shotgun on the darkened grassy yard. Then I finally felt it and picked it up. When I looked up, the beast had run off. It was moving fast away from us and it was emitting yelps of pain and growls of rage. I didn’t care. It was gone.” Michael then let out a long sigh, reliving his night those 50+ years ago feeling the relief that he felt that night and then rose his head suddenly to attention and looked towards the door of the pub. He then came back to reality.

It was back, Michael knew this. It had obviously killed…that one man whoever it was in the distance. It doesn’t matter. For certain, they would have known him. He would have been a friend. All the village were friends. The community ousted no one. No even Ethel MacDonough, the town loudmouth and gossiper, would no one want any harm to come to…..but how many more lives were lost this night?

Michael continued to an attentive storytelling session of listeners “It came back three more times during that month but seemed to remain a spectator…we heard its growls in the night and the crashing of the brush and branches within the tree line beyond the crops. We had our gun at the ready and had some folks bring me up a new rifle that was semi-automatic from Glasgow that I don’t think was really legal.”

“I know what you mean`” Danny added. “I lived a few years in Belfast, Michael. Remember?” and tried to attempt a cheeky, comforting smile. Michael hardly paid any attention as he continued.

“We had been told….warned… to leave the land alone. We were told tales of a bogeyman that were laughable, at best, but were told to leave the land alone and take only what was enough for your and your family. I want you to know, I was not being greedy. I wanted to provide food for mine and was just glad that the beast had disappeared for years after and that was when I had my daughter Isabelle. She was only 5 years old around the time when the area attracted new settlers and….they started to build the town” he explained.

“but Michael….you mean your son Michael Jr….Micky Alexander ….your son that works at the docks now in Liverpool….right, you don’t have a daughter” Angus interrupted.

“Please, Angus…..” Michael hushed Angus with a calming hand gesture “let me finish”…..

The Old Man observed the faces around him, with a final glance to the space around the front of the bar. Listening. Seems that only Michael could hear the low breathing that accompanied his survey.

“that damn thing would not give up!” Michael insisted. “the villagers did not help the situation with the constant build and razing of meadows, woodland and river space. I did not blame them. They were not aware. If I had told them, how would they accept this fairy tale when a child of 5 thought it to be pure haver…gibberish?? I asked them, during one town meeting, that perhaps they leave some of the natural space for the habitat of the wildlife so we don’t drive away the elk, rabbits and deer. We would need food and they also help the fertility of the land for crops. I was voted down. They wanted mills and lumber yards and needed to pull in the riverbanks for boat passages. This was not going to end well. I hoped that mine was not connected to my childhood warning and this monstrosity was a one-time occurrence. It was not” Michael’s head bowed. He had trouble catching his breath and coughed twice. This brought about a sound much closer to the pub that sounded like a demonic recognition of an old friend. A low mooing sound. Deep and unnatural. The group inside froze and trembled. Angus gripped his rifle and pulled it close to his chest. There was silence for nearly 10 minutes after this….Michael wanted to hurry back to his final bit of the story. His cautionary tale that was past caution.

“The wind turbines. The town had grown so much back then in such a short time and remained unmoved for so long that I had not considered this until I heard this thing tonight. We have just ripped apart untold stretches of land – at least 80 km – to install cabling and these behemoths for the energy of a few Glaswegians. I didn’t think about this. It would have been through many villages now to make its way here tonight. I promise you that lives were lost this night. It is not finished. The destruction of the land it surveys creates a seething rage. I’ll be honest, I am not sure why it has stalled outside. It is what I tell you. This is beyond doubt. The question is if we will survive as I did that night long ago. My daughter did not. It took her away from me” Michael lamented, glossy eyed.

“After the town had been built up and there were dances and fiddles blaring and the newly erected halls were alit with merry and cheer….it made its way to us. It was always in the dark of night. Never in the day. It came to us while the town was asleep. Screams rang out across the village as it tore from home to home. Some homes were smashed into and we lost 6 of our folk. When it came to me, I heard it first outside, howling….I heard the claws raking across the trees. It wanted my attention. I knew what it was. I know that it remembered me. My wife peeked outside and I begged her to hold her stress. We could not risk this beast getting inside. We turned off the lights. It wanted revenge I have no doubt. Not just for the raping of its land but for the wounding of it years before. I believe that the reason it held back was also because I believe that it had some small measure of fear which caused its hesitation.

My little girl woke and began screaming. I grabbed my rifle and flashlight and ran outside to make some attempt to take this thing on. Whether I was killed or not, it would not get to my family. I got to the front porch. There is was, staring into my little girl’s bedroom. It was as massive as I remembered. I screamed at it in such a rage that I frightened myself. I was ready to wrestle it to the ground if I had to. I shot at it again. It shrieked at me and slammed it’s claws at the house as the bullet hit. This time, the shoulder. It seemed to make it more enraged” Michael grit his teeth and spit out the next sentence with tears.

“it smashed my little Isabella’s window. The window exploded and it rushed into the room while I scrambled after it screaming, crying, wailing while my wife screamed from behind me and raced behind me, falling into the mud at the bottom of the steps….I got the window in less than a second, it felt. The beast had my daughter in its claws” Michael paused, wiped a tear, another sip from a now empty pint. Danny handed him his for that final sip. Gordon and Colin placed arms around Michael Coy while he finished his tale.

“There was blood covering its right arm as it spread a wide fanged grin across its face. This thing was a mass of rage filled instinct, I knew but at this moment, it was personal. I knew this. I pointed my gun at it and because Isabelle was small, I knew I could get its leg or foot to disable it for a moment to reach Isabelle. I raised the gun and immediately, it let out a scream as it stretched its head towards me to focus its anger towards me. My wife and daughter screamed in unison while I fired. I barely grazed its leg. It didn’t even flinch. It rushed towards me while I raised my Enfield for another shot and it knocked me to the ground and sent my rifle flying. It flew off into the forest. I could hear the screams of my little Isabelle fading into the distance. I gave chase as long as my legs could and I heard nothing. Was beaten down by branches in my face and roots tripping me up in the pitch dark. I lay in the bog, wailing uncontrollably. Screaming for my little girl for hours until I had to get back to my wife that was beyond comfort. We spent years in a haze. We could not stop considering the hundreds of versions of Isabelle’s fate. It plagued us. 7 years later, Mary got pregnant with Michael Alexander. We put up a large fence but we vowed to stay and not give up our land. I have added to my gun collection and we raised Michael without incident for the rest of our lives, until now” Michael concluded. The lads were all tear filled and with heads bowed and felt Michael’s pain. Aila, head in hands, weeped quietly near the fire with her back to the rest.

“Fook sake Michael….I’m sorry lad. I didn’t know” Angus declared. Colin, Danny, Angus, Aila, Gordon and the other boys Arthur and Dennis, brothers who patroned the pub every Saturday evening, looked at each other and asked Michael what could be done and what are we expecting.

“We must make a stand. We cannot let this get any further. We cannot let it take any more innocent lives” Michael asserted. “what weapons do you have, Angus?”

“I have a pistol in the drawer of the desk in back and this here rifle”. I have some knives in the little kitchen in the back if they are of any use but can’t imagine you’d get close enough to use, by your account” Angus replied.

The group each took whatever they could. Michael refused a weapon while Danny took the pistol and various items – knives, a cricket bat and a fire poker and snow shovel were grabbed up. They moved towards the front. The low breathing was not far from them, on the other side of that paint chipped, three-inch-thick cedar door. The lads tried to get a peek again through the stained-glass window but could see nothing.

Danny took a deep breath, paused and slowly unbolted the door and gripped its handle. There was a paralyzing fear amongst the group at what they would see and less of what it could do.

The door creaked open. Angus and the others had never heard that creak before. The pub was usually full of life and song and laughter that this unwelcome noise had not existed. The door slowly fulfilled its action to bring in a bluster of wind and light snow. The snow in front of them was luminated white and shining from the one light that positioned itself at the start of the lane that had guided so many staggering souls back to their safe and warm beds.

There was nothing outside but the blackness of a tree line and the last steps of David’s rush home. David never made it home, it was later learned. Found in a ditch off the path, less than 150 metres from the pub. The group scanned the perimeter and listened. Nothing.

Then a low growl attracted their attention in a cumulative snap of heads towards the left of the tree line, near Angus’ bobcat tractor used for snow removal. There it was. Eyes alight, nearly 8 foot tall. Staring at its prey. Its eyes projected a sense of determination. They stood paralysed. They gripped their weapons, white knuckled, all. Angus raised his rifle. Waiting for a shot. Danny was first. Danny, a crack shot, fired his pistol at it, hitting it straight into the head. The precision of an IRA soldier. A former life that was extinguished and escaped from.

The beast howled into the sky and clutched at its eye where the bullet seemed to hit. Then Angus fired and hit the snowplow window “Ah fuck!” he shouted. Even during this, he momentarily realized that he had smashed his own window. Then fired another and hit its chest while Danny pushed forward through the snow, pistol at eye level firing every last bullet into the beast while it attempted to run. Courage found itself in the team as they all pushed forward knowing that Danny had provided an advantage. They got close to it. Michael stayed back at the pub door. He watched. He wanted his revenge but he knew that his old legs would not be able to catch up.

“Da…..daddy……” a female voice came from behind Michael, in the empty pub. Michael gasped and spun around. This little voice was etched in his memory and it would be if he lived to be 5000 years old. Tears gushed from his eyes and he peered across the pub. Nothing. There was nothing. He fell to his knees, sobbing. He needed closure. This was, certainly, his past begging for him to make amends somehow.

He rose up, he moved outside to the group that had surrounded the wounded beast. It was on its haunches, covering its head. Danny had pointed his final bullet towards its head and was ready to pull the trigger when Michael, who appeared behind him quietly, placed a frail hand on Danny’s and took the pistol.

The beast then uncovered itself and looked directly into the eyes of Michael Coy. Old enemies. A lifetime journey of hell steered by this fur clad nightmare. It grinned with that same wide fanged mouth. Its mouth was covered in blood from its night of savage brutality. Many Isabelle’s were cut down this evening. The beast gave out a final shriek and a sudden swipe of its claw took off Michael’s arm but not before that final blast. Blood filled the air as Michael Coy’s arm flew across the sky. It was hard to distinguish between the shriek of the beast, the gun shot and the scream from old Michael Coy. The beast collapsed to the ground. A fountain of blood gushed from its head while Michael lay in the snow, filling it with blood while Danny and Angus grabbed him and began to pull him back towards the pub. Dragging Michael leaving a trail of blood across the snow. The rest of the group screamed and stabbed and beat the flailing demonic creature until it was nothing more than a hair covered mass in the snow. The group made its stand at the behest of Michael Coy. Michael got his revenge but at the price of his life. The old man, lay bleeding to death. Bar cloths and coats held the blood to a minimum but it couldn’t be stopped. Michael offered the group a last look and a vague smile and looked up, imagining his lovely wife Mary and daughter Isabelle before he joined them. The group then burned the beast and dumped the remains into the river using Angus’ bobcat plow.

The following weeks, there were stories of what the villagers had seen. The pub group had made a promise to leave the story alone. To keep it to themselves forever. It would do no good to cause a furor and also risk being ostracized as drunken fools with wild imaginations. Michael was said to have been attacked by wolves on his way home. An old man that was easy prey for the scavenging packs that had been pushed into the village due to the overextension of the land development. Four years after the night’s deadly occurrences. The Scottish government had decided to bring investment to Braemar and the villages of Aberdeenshire and provide new jobs with a large-scale highway project. There would be a new Council highway moving through the north. The new mayor of Braemar had brokered this deal and was proud to be leading this new development. The villagers that new the truth, including Danny, Angus, Aila, Colin, Gordon, Arthur and Dennis were not against it. They knew that their bogeyman had been dealt with and this was a welcome new chapter for the area. As long as the village kept its community, there was no objection.

Six months into the rapidly moving infrastructure project, 160km of forest was razed and rivers were bridged and Aberdeenshire was hardly recognized anymore. This would make for easier access to the larger towns and cities for supplies and medical visits. Over 200 new jobs were created for the project and it would last another 3 years, it was projected.

It was at the end of this six months that there were shrieks across the countryside. Higher pitched shrieks. This was soon followed by the loss of many project workers, then children. Then sightings of many half human monstrosities with fangs and claws moving very fast across fields and wood. Some claimed to have seen 4 at once moving quickly across the land and some seen feeding on livestock. The beast had been given a family. The slaughter was far reaching, merciless and quick. Their directives were instinctive and none were spared.

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[holmesoverture]

Eileen’s Official Nigel Bruce Defense Post

Weeks after first mentioning the possibility of writing this post in my Sink or Ship entry for the Rathbone/Bruce films, allow me to welcome you to my official and way the heck too long Nigel Bruce Defense Post.

I don’t think I need to convince anyone that the reputation of Bruce’s Watson has suffered in the years since he played Sherlock Holmes’ faithful Boswell.  Virtually every time someone wants to praise a Watson, they feel the need to disparage Bruce to do it (“This Watson is great because he’s not a bumbler unlike some people I could mention, ahem, ahem”). James Mason only agreed to play Watson in Murder by Decree if they didn’t write him as an idiot. Edward Hardwicke was more polite about it, but he seems to have felt similarly about Bruce’s Watson’s capabilities.  More recently, of course, Kate Beeton did her famous “Stupid Watson” comic, launching a nickname that seems to have caught on with some people around the interwebs.

And, in fairness, not all of the ire directed at Nigel Bruce is unwarranted. The Rathbone films do have a tendency to go way overboard with the comedy relief, and not even the fact that it was made for World War II audiences who were probably in desperate need of a laugh makes me feel better about it.  This aspect of the movies hasn’t aged well.  I admit that willingly.

But it’s important to note that the comedy relief really is just one aspect of Bruce’s Watson.  For some reason, it’s the only aspect that people seem to remember when really he’s surprisingly multifaceted.  To reduce Nigel Bruce’s interpretation of Watson to a demeaning nickname is unfair in the extreme, and since no one else seems to be willing to waste their time in refuting these gross overgeneralizations, I will heroically step in to fill this void that no one wanted filled.

And if you decide you still don’t like Bruce’s Watson after reading this post, that’s fine.  My goal in writing this is not to push people into liking something that’s not to their tastes.  All I want is to point out some inconsistencies in the Bumbling Oaf trope and maybe make you think about how you feel and why.  (I also want to vent a little—it is the internet, after all.)

Open your minds and join me on this journey, mis amigos.  It’s kind of long, but hopefully my witty insights and that one goofy picture of Batman I included will make it worth it.

Let’s start at the start: 1939’s The Hound of the Baskervilles.  As I’m sure most of you are aware, this story hardly features Holmes at all.  Watson is the one who heads out to Baskerville Hall alone to investigate, which requires him to be at least somewhat decent at investigative work, and he certainly is that.  It’s only when Holmes shows up that he becomes the comedy relief.  Later that year, in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Holmes again sends Watson to investigate alone, and while I wouldn’t say it goes well, it doesn’t go noticeably worse than in any other version.  Plus, a couple of the major humorous moments feature Watson on the winning side of the joke for once.

That’s about all the time I’ll spend on Bruce’s first two outings as Dr. Watson, since they are noticeably different from the B movies which followed.  (The most striking changes, for those who haven’t seen them, are that the stories now take place in the 1940s rather than the Victorian era and also they now have the budget of an office Christmas party.)  It’s here that the quality of the movies starts to waver, and I believe they are what most people are referring to when they complain about Nigel Bruce.  The comedy relief bits are really ramped up here, but just because Watson became more of a punching bag doesn’t mean he necessarily became less intelligent or less interesting.

Before we continue, there’s one point Hardwicke made in that interview I linked to above that I’d like to address.  He basically said that Watson’s training as a doctor means that he couldn’t be stupid.

First of all, Ben Carson.  Second, the entire point of this post is to demonstrate that Watson wasn’t as stupid as everyone thinks, and we’ll get to that in just a second. Third, these movies do remember that Watson is a doctor and give him a few opportunities to show off his medical chops.  In Terror By Night, Watson’s the one who announces the victim died of heart failure.  It’s also him who notices a small pinprick in the dead guy’s neck that suggests said heart failure was induced.  Granted, he didn’t mention the mark right away because he dismissed it as insignificant, but given that Holmes also had a look at the body and didn’t notice the mark at all, I think Watson deserves some props here.

Now I’m not even going to try to defend the rest of Terror By Night because it’s pretty much the epitome of everything people dislike about Bruce’s Watson.  But it does go to show that, even when the Baker Street Dozen was at its silliest, Watson still had his moments.

If we want a really solid example of Watson being competent, however, we must go elsewhere.  Let’s start with The Secret Weapon.  It starts out as one would expect, with Watson being charged with guarding a scientist recently escaped from mainland Europe, only to fall asleep and allow the guy to wander off (YOU HAD ONE JOB).  But later on, the film adapts bits of The Dancing Men, and when Holmes and Watson first encounter the code, it’s Watson who explains its significance to the lady whose missing boyfriend wrote it. He even sits down to decode it, but it’s been slightly altered since their last encounter with it, so it comes out wrong.

Naturally it’s Watson who makes this error while Holmes discovers what the alteration was.  So now Watson looks like a knucklehead even though, again, he apparently learned the Dancing Men code so well that he could use it at a moment’s notice despite not seeing it for years.

But wait, what’s this?  There’s another coded message, this one even more fiendishly difficult than the first?  What to do now?  Holmes and Watson spend the next few hours poring over the code, trying every combination and trick they can think of in their attempts to decode the message.  Oh wait, did I say Holmes and Watson?  I meant Watson by himself while Holmes sulks and makes rude comments.

Not bad for a bumbling oaf.

In the end, it’s an off-hand remark from Watson that flicks on the lightbulb over Holmes’ head, enabling Holmes to swoop in and steal the limelight from poor Watson.  Our detective makes his brilliant game-changing deduction thanks to his conductor of light, who’s been doing the thankless drudge work this whole time.  (This kind of happens a lot, actually—twice in Dressed to Kill alone, a casual remark from Watson enables Holmes to save the day.)

The real problem here isn’t that Watson is stupid; it’s the way the scene is framed.  The movie is so busy focusing on Holmes’ deductions and accomplishments that Watson’s contributions mostly go unacknowledged.  It’s clear from the fact that Watson was deeply involved in the decoding process that he’s perfectly intelligent and that Holmes trusts him to help with even the more difficult aspects of crime-solving.

Something similar occurs in The Woman in Green, which features Moriarty hypnotizing people into committing suicide for reasons that escape me at the moment.  (This isn’t the high point of the Rathbone/Bruce collaborations okay)  Again we have a comedy relief bit, with Watson being hypnotized into taking his shoes off or some nonsense immediately after declaring that hypnotism is BS. It’s the kind of thing you’d see on a ‘60s sitcom.

The movie ends with Watson arriving almost too late to save Holmes from Moriarty because he got stopped by a police officer for speeding.  Yes, haha, silly Watson, can’t do anything right and almost ruined everything.  But let’s reframe this scene for a second. Think about it from Watson’s perspective.  He’s given a task to do by Holmes, who is going to be in mortal danger the entire time. He’s terrified for his friend and knows that his life is in his hands.  Of course he’s going to break every damn speed law in the country to try to protect him.  Just imagine how he felt when he got pulled over, when he had to waste all that time trying to explain the situation to the officer, knowing that every second spent arguing could mean Holmes’ life.

If this were a scene in one of the newer, edgier Sherlock Holmes adaptations, we probably would get to see it from Watson’s perspective, and depending on the version, I’m betting Watson would have just floored it when the police sirens started going.  And even if Watson did stop, he very well might have lost patience halfway through the proceedings and punched out the cop to get to Holmes.

And by “he,” I mean Panin specifically.

Obviously, Bruce’s version could not do that because of the pearl-clutching moral censors.  Or rather, he couldn’t do that on-screen.  It’s never stated how Watson’s interaction with the police ended.  How do we know he didn’t punch the guy?  Because if you think Nigel Bruce’s Watson wasn’t willing and able to kick some ass, allow me to direct your attention to The Spider Woman, in which Holmes fakes his death, then comes back disguised as a postman and makes disparaging remarks about that fakey detective Sherlock Holmes, because Holmes is a dick like that.  Bruce, being one of the more patient Watsons, tolerates it for a while before knocking Mailman Holmes right into a chair.

Again, this scene is played for laughs, but from Watson’s perspective, it’s about as unfunny as you can get.  The man was unable to stop the death of his closest and dearest friend.  He’s just had a hard day of packing up Holmes’ things for a museum, then some asshole postman shows up and starts insulting his recently deceased best friend for no reason.  It’s little surprise that he snapped.  So yeah, Bruce’s Watson was 100% down with decking people when placed under sufficient emotional strain, which he may well have been in The Woman in Green.

I think I’ve gotten away from my point here, but it basically boils down to the fact that Watson was not an idiot at the end of The Woman in Green; the way the scene is framed just makes him look like one.

There are also times when Bruce’s Watson doesn’t seem to do much of anything, which may be misconstrued as stupidity.  Let’s look at Dressed to Kill.  Now towards the end, Watson does get A Scandal in Bohemia-ed pretty bad, but that comes right after Holmes walks right into the bad guy’s trap like a knucklehead, so they’re roughly even on that front.  The only real difference is that Holmes solves his problem on his own, while Watson needs Holmes to figure out the solution to his dilemma for him.

But aside from that and a couple of minor silly incidents, all Watson really does is act as a sounding board for Holmes. Some people may interpret this as his being useless, but this is what Holmes used to want in a partner.  Quoth Sherlock Holmes in The Blanched Soldier, “A confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed book, is indeed an ideal helpmate.”

This line demonstrates two things: one, wow, Holmes, gush some more why don’t you.  Two, however the characters have evolved in recent years, the original Holmes didn’t want someone like Liu, who ends up becoming proficient enough to start her own detective agency.  He wanted someone more like Bruce, who didn’t have nearly the same capacity for deductive reasoning but who had the curiosity and inquisitiveness to make, according to Canon Holmes, “an ideal helpmate.”

There are plenty of the original stories in which Watson does little more than narrate—in The Beryl Coronet, for example, I’m pretty sure that the only thing Watson really does is point out their future client in the street.  I think we’ve gotten so used to Watson being an action hero or a detective in his (or her) own right that we forget his original primary role was as the storyteller.  (That is literally where the nickname Boswell comes from.)  Being most definitively a sidekick doesn’t make Nigel Bruce useless or stupid; it means he’s fulfilling the role originally set out for his character.

The comedy relief business is, of course, largely an invention of the Rathbone/Bruce films.  But honestly, I think the problem with Bruce’s Watson isn’t so much him as it is the filmmakers’ obsession with building up Holmes to be inhumanly perfect.  The Spider Woman has a perfect example of this: there’s one scene that adapts that bit from The Devil’s Foot where Holmes and Watson are almost killed by poisonous gas and Watson has to save them both.  Here, however, it’s Holmes who does the rescuing, because of course he does.  Can’t have Watson grabbing any glory, now can we?

In fact, basically everyone who isn’t Holmes—and arguably Moriarty, though he sure did fall hard for the Brer Rabbit routine in The Secret Weapon, to say nothing of his ignoble demise in The Woman in Green—is depicted as a little lacking in the brain department. Lestrade and company are dim enough that Watson frequently calls them out for being boneheads.  Holmes’ clients almost inevitably doubt Holmes’ abilities despite his great reputation, and Watson just loves rubbing their noses in how smart Holmes really is.

(That’s another thing people seem to dislike about Nigel Bruce for some reason.  I’ve heard complaints about how he’s a suck-up who mindlessly admires Holmes despite how rude Holmes is to him.  Again, this is an oversimplification.  I already covered this in Sink or Ship, so I won’t belabor the point here, but I view Watson’s admiring comments less like sucking up and more like pride in his friend and his work.  Not only that, Watson doesn’t always passively accept impoliteness.  He flat out tells Holmes to stop being cranky in The Secret Weapon, and he gets quite huffy when he thinks Holmes is trying to make a fool of him in Terror by Night.  Plus, Bruce is not even the only Watson to have stars in his eyes every time he looks at Holmes—Burke in particular puts up with quite a lot [see The Solitary Cyclist for a great example], and he starts looking murdery whenever someone fails to recognize his brilliant detective buddy.)

It’s fashionable nowadays to make Watson almost as smart as Holmes, which only amplifies the perceived stupidity of Nigel Bruce’s Watson.  But in the original stories, Watson isn’t a deducing genius.  That’s the whole point.  He is basically the reader stand-in, the average Joe thrust into Holmes’ world and continually dazzled by it (and him).  Now if you prefer the more current trends, that’s one thing.  But to condemn Bruce for not magically predicting and following said trends is about as fair as criticizing Adam West’s Batman for not being serious enough, completely ignoring the fact that at the time Batman was less “I Am The Night” and more “Robin got temporary amnesia and super-strength from a bolt of lightning and now wants to fight Batman because a white guy pretending to be a native told him to.”

Would I lie to you about a thing like that?

And it’s not as though Bruce is the only Watson who bungles things.  During Solomin’s tenure as the good doctor, he got whacked in the head when trying to sleuth on his own, got his dirty footprints all over Charles Augustus Milverton’s house (which Holmes then forced him to clean up), and completely and hilariously failed to disguise himself as a priest.  That’s saying nothing of the first half of the pilot, where Watson assumes Holmes is a criminal mastermind and conducts his own wildly misguided, eminently goofy investigation that culminates in Holmes knocking him out during a boxing match.  And yet no one ever accuses Solomin of being a bumbler (not that they should).  I’m not sure why people are willing to excuse him and not Bruce.  Is it because Solomin is young and cute?

Maybe it’s because his dumbassery led to the infamous Cuddling in the Carriage scene.

Or maybe everyone’s problem is not just Bruce himself, but the fact that his performance had such a major influence on Watsons everywhere for literal decades.  In the 1950s Sherlock Holmes TV show, Marion-Crawford’s Watson clearly borrows a lot from Bruce in terms of turning the comedy relief aspect up to eleven.  (I would argue Marion-Crawford is actually worse in this regard.)  Dr. Dawson in The Great Mouse Detective physically resembles Bruce, as does Ric Spiegal in those Wishbone episodes, even though both of them were supposed to be adapting books and shouldn’t have had anything to do with the Rathbone/Bruce films.  I guess some folks got resentful that Bruce Watson was overshadowing Canon Watson?

But it’s important to remember here that Nigel Bruce was one of the first film Watsons with any discernible personality traits.  If you’ve seen any of the Sherlock Holmes silent films, you know what I mean.  If not, you haven’t heard of any of their Watsons for good reason.

To start with, Watson doesn’t even appear in 1900’s Sherlock Holmes Baffled (which is only a minute long) or in 1912’s The Copper Beeches (which is so ridiculous that I may have to give it its own post).  Then came Hubert Willis in the Eille Norwood series of early ‘20s shorts.  They’re rather hyper-focused on the casework here, so no one gets any characterization (at least not in the two I’ve seen). And Roland Young in 1922’s Sherlock Holmes was onscreen for maybe 10 minutes and did almost nothing.  I didn’t even remember he was in the dang movie until I recently rewatched it for Sink or Ship.

This is his only conversation with Holmes in like the whole movie.  So much for being intimate companions.

And I’m sure there are other examples.  So even if you don’t necessarily like what Bruce did (and/or was told to do) with the character, he some deserves respect for effort and originality. I also think it’s a little unfair that people keep dinging him for not being A+ perfect at doing something no one else (with the possible exception of Ian Fleming in the Wontner films) had ever tried before, i.e. making Screen Watson interesting. Dude didn’t become The Watson for no reason, after all.

To conclude this post, we can return to my Batman analogy.  I feel like modern public attitude towards Nigel Bruce is comparable to how some people get all upset about Adam West because that’s not the real Batman!  The real Batman is grim and gritty and for ADULTS, not some Batusi-dancing weirdo! No joke: the first time I went to a comic book shop, the guy who worked there said that Adam West—my first Batman, the guy who got me into superheroes and therefore the main reason I was in that shop in the first place—wasn’t a real Batman.

Needless to say, I have little use for snobbery in any fandom.  So I am going to say now about Nigel Bruce what I should have said then about Adam West: if you don’t like the goofy version, don’t watch the goofy version.  There are literally hundreds of versions of this character out there; not every single one is going to cater to your tastes, nor should they.  This fact should not detract from your enjoyment of the versions you do like, and it doesn’t make the versions you dislike less legit.  The old has at least as much basis in canon as the new, and even if it’s parts of canon you’d rather ignore, other people feel differently, so don’t be a jerkweed about it.

But before you make up your mind about Nigel Bruce, maybe take a sec and give him another chance.  “Stupid Watson” is a reductive label that focuses only on the worst the Rathbone films had to offer and does not give due credit to a genuinely groundbreaking character with more depth than I’ve ever seen anyone acknowledge.  Do some of the movies portray him better than others?  Sure, but you can say that of every episodic Sherlock Holmes adaptation.  For the most part, it’s not nearly as bad as people seem to think.  And even when it is that bad, it’s still a combination of canon compliance and original character development that was entirely unique at the time and that deserves to be looked upon with, if nothing else, gratitude for paving the way for interesting Watsons everywhere.

#rathbone holmes #media analysis #omg it's finally done #i admit maybe nostalgia is coloring my thinking a little #but dangit i love nigel bruce i will defend him forever

[strawbebehmod]

Cheer Up, Squirt

Another big brother william au one shot. Thankfully no feels in this one. Just william trying to cheer up his little bros. William frowned at his brothers who were currently lying about silently in their dorm in annoyance at their latest dead lead. They had found a guy in a town that everyone claimed could make gold out of nothing. Not only was this breaking the law, but if he was truly making gold from nothing, then this meant the man might be in possession of a philosopher’s stone. Willian had his suspicions on if this man was even making gold at all. He highly doubted that the man could have just stumbled acrossed a philosopher’s stone, and after they had all traveled over a hundred miles north, his suspicions proved to be correct. The alchemist not only did not have a philosopher’s stone, but his concoctions weren’t even gold at all! They were a mix of pyrite and brass. He was still arrested for false advertising, but the boys left the cold north tired and disappointed. William sighed. It had been almost three years since they first began their quest, yet they hadn’t gotten an inch closer to their goal. In a way, William was glad they hadn’t figured out the truth yet, but still he wanted to see his brother’s whole and happy again, and right now they were neither. He had tried everything to cheer them up after this disappointment, but nothing seemed to work. All of a sudden, William got an idea. A smirk played on his lips. There was still one ace left up his sleeve. One he could guarantee would lighten their moods. He quietly stepped out of the room for a moment as he put his plan into action. …. Ed glared at the table as rested his head in his hand and tapped his fingers on the table with the other. He couldn’t believe it had all been a hoax at the same time, he didn’t know why he believed that guy had actually had a stone in the first place. He should have believed Will when he said it looked unlikely, but they had been so desperate lately they had to at least give it a try! Though now he was starting to wonder what the point of trying was anymore. They were no closer to finding the stone than when they had first started. Maybe this whole thing was pointless. What if his mistake could never be undone? What if Al was stuck in that suit forever thanks to him? He shut his eyes tightly as he brought his forehead down to the table. However, he did not stay in that position for long as the door suddenly slammed as it swung open. “What the hell do you maggots think you’re doing?!” A familiar voice shouted. Ed sat straight up. That voice was Basque Grand’s! Ed suddenly frowned what the hell was that asshole doing here? This was his private dorm, dammit! He had no right to come barging in, even if he was a brigadier general. Ed turned to give him a piece of his mind, but he stopped short when he got a good look at him. Ed and Al both blinked in shock, eyes wide and jaws hanging low as they saw the brigadier general was wearing a pink frilly tutu, a princess crown, and ballerina shoes with ribbons. It took him a moment to process this before he had to bring his hands to his mouth to stop himself from laughing. However it didn’t last long as he suddenly burst out laughing. “William?!” Al cried in between trying to stifle his laughter, “What the-Is that you?” William inwardly smirked before continuing his charade. “What are you worms talking about?”he snapped, “it’s me, brigadier general Basque Grand, with my Iron blooded mustache! Look at its magnificence!” He stroked the black mustache and exaggerated it even farther in the process. Ed had his head laying on the table as he continued to laugh. “What’s this?!” He cried, still in Basques voice as he marched up to Edward, “You dare to mock it? I’ll have you know this mustache has won several medals for honor and valor in ishval! It’s probably smarter than I considering the fact it's twice the size of my brain! Yes, this mustache struck fear into the hearts of many an enemy, boy! And if you don’t stop laughing you will learn to fear it too! FEAR THE MUSTACHE, MAGGOT! FEAR IT!” Ed began howling with laughter at that, slamming his fist on the table as tears streamed down his face. Al’s suit was literally rattling with laughter as he tried desperately to keep himself standing by clutching the end table. “Please, Will!” Ed cried between pearls of laughter, “No more! I can’t take it!” “I see you are overwhelmed by its power!” Will continued in Basque form, dancing away from Ed into the center of the room before pirouetting and flexing. “It is understandable. After all, it is the most majestic mustache in all the military,” he said before transforming the mustache so that it looked like it was flexing. Ed was now wheezing and red faced as Al had fallen to the floor and curled in on himself in laughter. “Oh god!” Ed cried clutching his stomach, “My gut! I think I broke something!” “Yes, that is its true strength,” Basque will continued, “It has to be that strong, otherwise, how could it support the weight of a giant ass like me! Infact, I might as well have these.” Will brought his hands to his ears, and when he removed them, two donkey ears had sprouted. Ed and Al took one look at him before their laughter got even louder to the point they were almost hysterical. Edward was now teetering back in his chair, laughing so hard he couldn’t breath. He felt like his lungs were ready to explode from laughter and that it would only take one more push to thrown him over the edge. And william was more than willing to provide that push. “Oi! Fullmetal!” He snapped, causing the gasping and teary eyed teen to look over towards him, “ What the HEHAWWW is so funny?!” With that Ed and Al let out a simultaneous roar of laughter before Ed accidentally tipped over his chair and hissed in pain, although he soon began laughing again, although not quite as hard. William winced, but continued to smirk as he walked over to Ed, changing back. “Brother? Are you alright?” Al questioned, his giggling ceasing for a moment. “Yeah, you had a nasty fall there,” Will noted crouching next to him. “No,” Ed chuckled as he looked up at his older brother, “I’m dead. You killed your little brother, you monster! How could you?” Will grinned. “Oh Ed,” he said sweetly as helped him up, “I thought you knew that was my plan all along! I’ve been planning to kill you with laughter for years.” “Oh wow, you’re so cruel…” Ed responded, rolling his eyes. “I know,” William said before moving onto Alphonse, “You need help too?” He held out his hand and the suit took it, allowing the homunculus to hoist him up. “Well now that you two are in a better mood, how about we head out to a park or something. You two need some fresh air that's not freezing cold. Besides, didn’t that teacher of yours say that exercise was good for the brain?” “Fair enough,” Ed said before following his brother out the door. However, as he did so, he and alphonse couldn’t stop chuckling after a few minutes he said something that surprised the Eldest brother. “God damn you William!” William turned to him in surprise. “Huh?” He asked, “what for?” What was Ed so upset about now? “Because, now we’ll never be able to take Basque Grand seriously again!” Alphonse explained. William blinked before smirking and chuckling. “Oh, You’re welcome!”he said with a wink before continuing to lead his siblings.

#edward elric #alphonse elric #fullmetal alchemist 2003 #Basque grand #human envy #big brother william au #strawbebehfic